silver mornings
by frozen watermelons
Summary: Their house is exactly seventeen minutes away from the coffee shop. It's white and made of brick with a wide walkway leading to an ivy green door and four bedrooms tucked away in its dusty corners. — or — a glimpse into a life that could have been (and what can still be). - — jason/reyna; future-fic.


**notes: **i know this is long overdue, but i couldn't see the point of posting this after reading hoh since it was so blatantly clear that there's only like a fool's chance of jeyna becoming canon, but what the hell. i am a sadist ok. have some domestic almost married jeyna.

**more notes: **this is really nothing more that a few incoherent sentences strung together to form a sorry excuse for a fic, but bear with me, alright? i'm terribly out of practice, i'm afraid.

**summary: **Their house is exactly seventeen minutes away from the coffee shop. It's white and made of brick with a wide walkway leading to an ivy green door and four bedrooms tucked away in its dusty corners. - — jason/reyna; future-fic.

**dedication: **to the jeyna fandom (because who else am i going to write for?) but mostly for jenelle (aka reynabeth) because she's awesome and she takes none of my bullshit and she understands what it feels like to ship these two.

**disclaimer**: i am but a poor high school student. i own very little.

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silver mornings

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**i.**

Their house is exactly seventeen minutes away from the coffee shop. It's white and made of brick with a wide walkway leading to an ivy green door and four bedrooms tucked away in its dusty corners.

In the middle of their living room lies a half-finished jigsaw puzzle of the New York skylines. It had been a gift from Annabeth for their first anniversary, and although they both tried to tell her that they were never particularly good with puzzles (for once they had attempted to finish one together and it had not ended well on Jason's part), the daughter of Athena would have none of it.

So it lies on the table in the middle of their living room, sitting alone and abandoned; for so long miserable and untouched that a layer of dust had started to settle over it. See: they rarely had time for such luxuries for there was always work to be done and duties to fulfill and dinner to look forward to and they would rather spend time poring over yesterday's paperwork than fighting over missing puzzle pieces.

But one Tuesday, the rain had started to fall and the electricity had gone out so the pair of them had resorted to attempting to finish the 5000-piece puzzle. They had sat quietly side by side, not saying much at all; eating what remained of their week-old left overs for dinner and trying not to misplace the remaining three corner pieces.

**ii.**

Reyna, for as long as Jason has known her, has never been one for showing much affection: she smiled at you when you deserved it and never gave more than that. But still—Jason remembers: sitting in front of a fire, where she had once confided in him, the hollow of her throat and shadows in her eyes and the lines of her palms and the way her voice dropped when she murmured. He remembers: her hand in his; the beat of her pulse and the rhythm of her heart; remembers her saying: "I trust you," and afterwards: "If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill you".

The sound of his laughter had rung through the villa and she had looked away, her lips upturned into a smile. He looks at her sometimes, and most days, she smiles back but sometimes-sometimes she looks away. Only sometimes, but still sometimes and every time she does, he thinks he can feel something break inside of him.

It hurts, of course. Whenever his gaze slides over to find her unable to meet his eyes; whenever she pulls her hand away from his; whenever she leaves the food he had prepared for her untouched. It _hurts_.

He thinks he'd like to get a glimpse into her thoughts. He thinks he'd want to see through the wall she put between them. And he knows it's ridiculous because her mind is hers and the last thing he wants is to give her more reasons to pull away. So he sits and he laughs and he _waits_ and it goes on this way between them until one day it doesn't anymore; until one day, she looks at him, her eyes warm and clear and _bright_ and he sees: his name in her eyes and his face in her thoughts and he smiles and thinks something like: _ah_, and he finds that there really isn't anything left for him to say.

**iii.**

Aurum and Argentum liked curling up in warm patches of sunlight.

They loved a number of things actually. They loved following Reyna around the house. They loved jellybeans almost as much as she did. Sometimes, when they were in a good mood, they liked eating from out of Jason's hand and they loved, perhaps more than anything, driving the both of them crazy by sleeping on _their_ bed (even when Reyna specifically instructed then not to; even when Jason had provided matching beds for the both of them to sleep in).

Once, Jason had made the grave mistake of trying to push Aurum out of bed. He hadn't even so much as blinked when the dog leapt at him. The automaton had wounded his hand so bad that he had to resort to sleeping on the couch and Reyna spoon-feeding him for a week.

**iv.**

She cannot quite forgive him; cannot quite shake off the shadow of his betrayal; cannot quite let go of the fact that he left. She hates herself for it sometimes; feels ashamed; the feeling clawing its way up her throat and scraping almost painfully against the roof of her mouth. He is sorry, she knows, but she cannot quite help herself. No matter what she does, there is always a sliver of hurt; a bloom of anger; a pang of pain in her chest whenever his gaze slides to meet her own.

And in the hours he was there, in the same room, in the same bed, she finds herself waiting for the moment when he disappears, finds herself expecting the disappointment that was sure to come. He leaves her sometimes, long enough to make her worry—long enough to make her think that he had gone away for good-but he always comes back; smiling in a way that makes her heart feel wonderfully, erratically _alive_ and she is thankful. She is thankful.

**v.**

Mornings, Jason learned, were always the best part of the day.

His mornings have come to compromise of: eyes creaking open to the alto chant of the birds outside; Reyna dragging him out of bed for their daily morning run; trying not to step on either Aurum or Argentum's tails on the way to the bathroom; scouting for his shoes that always seemed to disappear just when he needed them and burning his tongue on some rushed, too-hot coffee.

But sometimes, sometimes, on the rare days when the sun doesn't shine quite as bright, and the rain starts to fall in quiet grey sheets, he'll wake up to a coffee that's neither too hot nor too cold, but intermediately just right sitting on the bedside table. And sometimes—sometimes he'll wake up to shutters that are pulled down, but not enough to block the warmth of morning sunshine on his cheeks.

But other times he'll wake up with hair in his mouth and a warm weight on his chest; a pair long legs tangling with his and an arm carelessly thrown around his waist; to a warm breath tickling his cheek and the covers bunched tightly around his shoulders.

It's on days like these that he always tries to let her sleep in—even if she specifically told him not to. It's well-deserved, in his opinion. They both work hard after all, but it is no secret that Reyna has always worked harder. There are days when she is gone for more than a just a few hours and days when he doesn't get to see her at all. Jason isn't proud, but he tries his best not to let it bother him too much. After all: Reyna has always put duty before everything else-even him. Still, he understands.

Which is why on the rare days such as this one, he says nothing. He simply untangles himself from her embrace; simply presses the ghost of a kiss against the nape of her neck; simply tucks the covers around her shoulders and tries his best to not burn the house down while attempting to make them breakfast.

**vi.**

This is what she does not tell him: she dreams. Of the woman with thin lips who had stolen him away; of the eight long months she had waited for his return; of how he had once chosen the girl with kaleidoscope eyes. She does not tell him that she dreams of New Rome burned to the ground; of her hands covered in blood and a knife buried in her side—

She does not tell of how she dreams of him not coming back.

When she wakes up with sweat dripping down her back and her heart hammering in her chest, she has to make sure that she is not imagining his arms around her waist or his breath blowing in her ear and she is ashamed for thinking thoughts that hardly seem her own.

She catches him staring at her sometimes, like he was only glancing and forgot to look away, like he had forgotten something important and was trying hard to remember. She thinks she might understand, if only because she can't seem to stop holding his hand tighter than she should.

**vii.**

She leaves him notes in places where he'd least expect to find them—behind the bathroom mirror; under the kitchen counter; the back pocket of his jeans; the inside of a pillowcase. They're nothing particularly important, just a couple of reminders; stuff she wanted him to get done; things she knew he'd eventually forget to do, mostly pointless; definitely irrelevant. But sometimes—sometimes, they aren't; sometimes, they mean something else entirely. They're always charming enough to make his heart thrum.

Of course: they're not quite love letters, but he keeps them as such anyway.

**viii.**

He thinks he misses her sometimes.

And he thinks it's actually kind of ridiculous because they _live_ together. He thinks he is being sentimental because how can you miss a person when you live with them?

But then he sees the empty seat in front of him and the space where her warmth had once lingered and he cannot help it—his heart yearns. He misses her.

And then he remembers: there is still their morning run to prepare for and dinner to look forward to and the puzzle still lying unfinished in the living room and he thinks that perhaps, it is enough for now.

**ix.**

Sometimes, Reyna wonders, if this is all there is to it.

She spends most of her time at the house nowadays: training alone; taking Aurum and Argentum out for a walk; doing paperwork; taking an occasional break to inspect New Rome and waiting for Jason to come home. Between her duties and making sure Jason doesn't somehow burn their house down, there really isn't much for her to do. She wonders if everyday will be like this, every week bleeding into next month, every minute melting into the next hour, consumed by things like post-it notes and late night coffee runs and the silence that never fails to greet her whenever she come back.

She thinks she might hate him sometimes (for leaving her behind, for holding her back), but then she sees the cup of tea on her bedside table—hastily prepared and already cold, but just the way she liked it—and the note attached to the door and the way the are shutters drawn. And then he'll say something about going out to buy coffee for the both of them (although she hardly ever drinks) but comes back with two packs of jellybeans instead. But then she'll see her name scribbled on pieces of paper, folded neatly and tucked into his pockets as though to keep them hidden and close to his heart and her stomach cramps with something like tenderness.

(But sometimes, her hands itch—for the thrill of a fight; for a sword in her grasp; for sight of blood being drawn—and her mother's blood calls, and she thinks about how warrior's hands are not made to sit still; thinks about fire and blood and a sword through the heart. She thinks of turning back).

**x.**

"Reyna," he says one day. "Reyna".

She looks up and her hand stills. He is peering into the room, hands wrapped around the box of jigsaw puzzles. The tension has gone from his eyes and there is something of hesitance and wry humor in the corners of his smile.

_(You're home, _he thinks. _You've come home._

_Thank you,_ she wants to say._ I love you, I love you, I love you—)_

"Jason," she says and her mouth curves."What is it?"

"I just wanted to see if—" he gestures to the box but then he sees the paperwork on her desk. His brow furrows and then he thinks better of it and shakes his head. "You're busy. I—never mind". He turns. "I'll be leaving now".

_You are trying too hard,_ her mind whispers, the words clenching at her heart, wounding their way around her bones. _But he is trying too_. There is a beat of silence between them and then: "Jason," she calls out at his retreating back, and: "Wait," and—

_(This_ is why Reyna stays: because some things are not about happiness. Because she has learned to be patient. Because there are still wars to be fought and quests to be had and more monsters to kill. They are, in the end, still Romans, still bound to their duties by life and by blood. They are Romans, and none of them have lead happy lives, but they are Romans and they have survived.

They are alive and it is more than enough).

He turns. "Does this mean," he says slowly, a smile breaking over his features, "that you aren't too busy after all?"

"Of course not," she tells him, a bit softly. And then, a little louder: "Of course not".

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**fin.**


End file.
